


Vena Amoris

by madamewriterofwrongs



Series: Tumblr Posts [16]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Handwriting, Introspection, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tattoos, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamewriterofwrongs/pseuds/madamewriterofwrongs
Summary: Buck and Eddie have always had different feelings about their handwriting, but when it brought them together, it looked perfect on their skin.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Series: Tumblr Posts [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875451
Comments: 12
Kudos: 129





	Vena Amoris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tkreyesevandiaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tkreyesevandiaz/gifts).



> Initially written as a birthday gift for [Zeethebooknerd on Tumblr](http://zeethebooknerd.tumblr.com) because we love handwriting fics and sentimental buddie.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](http://madamewriterofwrongs.tumblr.com)

Eddie had never been very particular about his handwriting. He learned from his mother, to loop his letters and write his name, and he helped to teach his sisters when it was their turn. His teachers never complained about his legibility so it wasn’t something he thought about beyond having the ability to put pen to paper and get his point across. It was just another form of communication; he wrote his essays, forged his mother’s signature when he failed his history tests, and signed birthday cards for his abuela whom he got to see once or twice per year once she retired to California. His hand was simply a vessel for the words in his mind.

His hand paused over the ‘z’, staring at the all the memories that came before.

The letters were straight and small, close, with spots of spilled ink where he’d pressed too tightly into the paper. He always pushed too hard. “Too precise”, Shannon had teased him once. The older he got, the tighter his signature became – the less space it took up. Even the tiny letters, all sharp edges and square curves, looked too big on the page he never wanted to sign. But there was no one else. In this moment, he was meant to be alone, and take responsibility for the weight of the world he’d loathed to share. It made his steady hands dig deeper.

When he blinked away tears, he couldn’t recognize the swirls and lines that supposedly identified him as the next of kin. This wasn’t his name; this wasn’t his signature signing away the last of his wife. These letters were for a man who had everything put together – who had hope, and control, and a future with a woman he wanted to love forever.

Eddie had none of that. He had a piece of paper and a plastic bag filled with final belongings that he’d have to unpack alone. There would be a lot more things he had to do alone from now on. This was simply day one.

He put his name in place of the man’s signature and handed it back to the nurse.

* * *

Buck hated his handwriting. More accurately, adults hated his handwriting. His parents, his teachers, everyone kept asking him to slow down and write neater. For a while, he didn’t care what they thought (so long as he could read it, what did it matter?) but the more they said it, the more the series of spirals and interconnected letters started to bother him. So, he tried to be more precise; tried to be intentional with every line and dot. What resulted was a series of uneven, blocky letters that seemed to be racing towards the right side of the page. After a while, people stopped criticizing his writing and he learned to live with it.

He tilted his head as he stopped in the middle of the room, boxes still in hand.

At the time of signing, he had been more focused on the intention behind the words rather than how they would look stacked next to so many different scrawls. He could pick out his two phrases with uncomfortable ease. It looked like a child’s handwriting (not that he’d ever blame Christopher, but the option was there). Messy and disconnected. It shouldn’t bother him – it hadn’t bothered him in a long time – but he’d always considered a person’s signature to reflect their personality and his was…

Startlingly accurate.

And now May would stare at this conglomeration of everyone’s personalities on her wall for as long as she kept it while at college. Maybe his disastrous writing didn’t matter so much, then. She’d be able to look at that poster and pick out everyone in her life who supported her. She would never be alone. Just as she had a team of people helping her move things into her dorm while she and Athena dictated from the corner, the people he’d come to consider his family would never abandon their loved ones.

Buck smiled at the poster resting against the door, and asked Athena where to place the boxes of books he’d been holding for too long.

* * *

Ultimately, it had been Buck’s suggestion but he would later admit, that he’d only been 75% serious. After all, it would hurt like hell (and he had been absolutely right about that). At the time, he’d argued that with their jobs, they wouldn’t be able to wear rings, but they still wanted to acknowledge their commitment to one another – “and keep the horny citizens at bay” Hen had teased. Bobby rolled his eyes, reminding them that most of the people at the station were married or in committed relationships, but none of them felt the need to take this extra step.

Then he remembered that he was talking to Buck and Eddie, who had their first kiss on top of a malfunctioning Ferris Wheel after Buck’s rope had snapped and Eddie had barely pulled him to safety. The boys were made for each other in rather dramatic fashion.

The pair spent all of their downtime for nearly a week, perfecting their designs before presenting them to the artist on their last afternoon off. Eddie had been incredibly nervous. He had plenty of tattoos – so did Buck – but this felt more permanent; this was symbolic of a deeper commitment. So, it had to be perfect. He had dozens of crumpled words thrown in the recycling that he refused to let Buck see until he had it exactly right. Not that Buck was in much of a hurry to share his own creation. Knowing it would be on Eddie’s skin forever, kept him awake at night, drawing at the kitchen table with the overhead light shadowing his hand. It took multiple threats of early mornings and caress-less nights to get him to keep his fretting to the daylight hours.

Finally, they settled on two designs that weren’t perfect, but they were close enough. The moment the needle pierced his finger, Buck regretted his decision despite the rush of excitement under his skin. The happy anticipation was singed by the burn of pain as the artist hit bone again and again. Proudly, he kept his hisses to a minimum and held Eddie’s hand all the tighter. The former-medic was much less composed as he sat for his own torturous experience. On several occasions, Buck had to press his newly bandaged hand into his husband’s thigh to keep him from squirming out of the chair – much to the artist’s annoyance.

The old wives’ tale about the left ring finger having a vein directly to the heart may have been less than anatomically correct, but seeing their spouse’s signature circling the joint in a thin, black ink, carried a special significance. No longer were those loops and lines just a means to an end or a reflection of failure. They were a symbol of commitment and (some said overdramatic) devotion to one another.

Everything that came before was inconsequential to the band across their finger with those eleven letters branded into their skin forever.


End file.
